


and learn to live with the unimaginable

by LauraHollis



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: 3rd person limited w Spike, Also angst because Buffy's fuckin dead, Episode: s06e03 After Life, Fluffy cuteness with brotherly Spike with Dawn, Major Character Undeath, Scoobies being adorable idiots trying to raise a teenager by themselves, This has been sitting finished in my drafts for weeks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 03:57:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6737257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauraHollis/pseuds/LauraHollis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Here he was: a predator, a monster, an unholy creature of the night, living with two lesbians to raise a teenager. Sounded something of a supernatural version of his soap operas. It made him feel useful. Gave his unlife a semblance of meaning. By night, he fought demons side by side with the Scoobies. By day, he either slept, watched his programmes, or took care of this girl who’s become something between a daughter and a sister to him. Buffy would have laughed at the idea. He liked to think she’d be proud of them, their little makeshift family she’d left them to.'</p>
<p>Buffy's dead, and life goes on.<br/>[set in the gap between seasons five and six]</p>
            </blockquote>





	and learn to live with the unimaginable

**Author's Note:**

> I'm such a sucker for the Spike/Dawn 'relationship' that developed through season five and six. I haven't read any fics yet set in the months between Buffy's death and her resurrection, so this was fun. 
> 
> Spoilers through s06ep03 'After Life', with scenes from The Bargaining p1 and p2.  
> Title from "It's Quiet Uptown" from Hamilton: An American Musical.

It’d been over a hundred days. Well, hundred and twelve, to be exact. He wouldn’t be ashamed to admit it. After all, it’s not just him. Willow. Xander. Tara. Giles. Anya. The rest of the Scoobies (at some point, he’d realized he’d become one of them. He’d become one of them a long time ago.) were counting, trying to pass the days with the poor robot substitute. Every time she complimented him, guilt consumed him. Willow still hadn’t been able to work out all the programming from its… previous uses. Who woulda thought Spike’s selfishness and sick fantasies would actually prove useful? Bleeding hell if he didn’t hate himself for it, though. This wasn’t Buffy. It’d never be his Buffy.

But Buffy was never his.

Every night, when Dawn had finished her homework and gone to sleep, he lied on the couch. Staring at the ceiling, losing his sense of reality in the darkness. He’d be back on the tower. This time, he’d kicked the creep away from Dawn in time. Another, he’d sacrificed himself for her. Sometimes the scene was bloody and violent and he watched the Summers girls scamper away in time. Sometimes, he’d saved the day without a scratch on him, hugged them both close, and kissed Buffy’s forehead. 

That one hurt the worst.

He remembered the feel of her lips on his. Of course, from that time they were nearly married. Before the final battle with Glory, that’s all he thought about. The constant “what if” hanging around his head. What if Willow hadn’t broken the spell? What if, even if she did, they’d realized that they were right for each other? Yin and Yang, ‘cept Yin would change for his Yang. He’d do anything for his Yang.

And then there was that time Glory had beaten the shit out of him. In those moments, he’d known just how deeply he cared for Dawn. For Buffy. She’d been wrong; it  _ was  _ love he was feeling. Had to be. He loved her so much it hurt to breathe. Or maybe that was the way Glory’d been torturing him. Yeah, at that moment, it had been the torture.

And then, with all those cuts and gashes and disgusting wounds, she’d kissed him. The real Buffy Summers, Slayer of Vampires, Defender of the Earth. She had kissed him for just a moment. 

That moment was the happiest of his existence. 

The moment was long gone.  _ Buffy  _ was long gone. But the pain would always be there. He could have saved her. He could have saved her. He could have saved her. He could have-- 

A noise from the stairwell brought him back from his thoughts. “Lil’ bit? What’re you doing awake? It’s a school night, you know that? It’s nearly midnight, little runt!”

“Chill, I’m hungry. Don’t have to be all parental about it,” she scoffed, but he could see her eyes were red. He dropped the subject.

Spike coughed. “What’d’ya want to eat, kid? Too late to do take out or delivery. Or are you looking for something more along the lines of some junk food from the cupboard?”

“I think I just want a granola bar.” She moved right past him to the kitchen, and he heard her shuffling around. “We do have granola bars, right? I mean, technically they’re Tara’s, but I don’t think she minds that I take them. Or maybe she does. Maybe she hid them in her room.”

Spike sighed on the couch, sitting up. “I think you’re overthinkin’ this, kid. Think we just ran out. Leave Wil a note on the fridge, then, if you want ‘em so bad.”

There was a pause, and a sudden rustle of plastic. “I found popcorn, instead.”

After the microwave beeped, Dawn came back into the living room and all but plopped next to him. “Wanna watch TV?”

Her looked at her skeptically. “You bloody well know I don’t. The girls’ll have my skins if they find out I let you stay up this late on a school night. I’m not supposed to condone this sort of behavior.”

“I’ll share my popcorn with you. And bring you a mug of blood from the fridge.”

“You know how to drive a bargain, lil’ bit.” Spike shoved a fistful of popcorn in his mouth. Dawn quickly returned with a warm mug for him, and he flipped the channels. 

“I think the Simpsons is usually on around now. Put that on.”

“Oi, don’t tell the girls about this, either. They’d have all the tellys on parental locks, if they could. Bet they think this show’s too violent. That shit’s tame compared to what we’ve seen, right?” He tried to get her to smile, but she didn’t. 

They watched the screen for twenty minutes, but neither of them were really watching.

“Buffy used to say this show was gross,” Dawn said softly. “She hated the cat and mouse. She always cringed when it got bloody.”

Spike nodded, trying to push away the rush of grief that threatened to constrict him at the mere mention of the girl. Outwardly, he’d begun to get pretty good at it. His breathing hardly stuttered. “Yeah? Sounds like her. Bet she didn’t fancy scary movies, right? Liked to keep work an’ home separated.”

Marge was driving, having a conversation with Lisa. Dawn didn’t seem to want to talk anymore, and he was grateful. When the episode ended, and the bowl of popcorn depleted, he sent her off to her room.

“Good night, Spike,” she said as she walked up the stairs. “I won’t tell Willow and Tara.”

“Yeah, yeah. G’night, kid.”

By day number one hundred thirty, things with the Scooby Gang were getting tense. Willow was constantly on edge. She’d been in some sort of denial about Buffy’s death. Maybe it was finally getting through to her. Poor doll. He practically lived with her, the girlfriend and Dawn, now. Quite a sight, it was; Dawn having essentially been adopted by Willow and Tara. Him too, really. He’d promised Buffy he would protect her, no matter what. If that meant being some sort of parental figure… nah. Dawn was more like his own sister. Equals. ‘Cept the bedtime part, but that was a moot point, what with him being a nocturnal vampire and all. 

Willow and Tara still had classes, so a few times a week, all the blinds in the Summers household would be drawn. Was it still considered the Summers household? For the past few months it had transformed into the Rosenberg-Maclay-Summers household, plus him, though he didn’t  _ technically  _ live here. Tara had offered him, once, but there was only one unoccupied bedroom left. No one had the heart to disturb her things. 

That would mean admitting that she really was gone.

Today was one of those days he stayed during the day to make sure Dawn got home alright.  _ Passions  _ was still on hiatus, so the telly was no use to him. He started looking through the fridge for potential dinner. Bloody  _ hell _ , was he domesticated. The money situation wasn’t getting any better, so they had to cut back on ordering out, lately. Nights when they were too exhausted from school and patrol, Tara and Willow asked him to put something together. Dawn would always try to help, and when she didn’t want to or had too much homework, pasta was the go-to. No fucking garlic, though. That was the house rule. It was bad enough that sunlight could creep through some of the blinds. After the first few weeks, Tara had tried to make the house as vampire-friendly as possible. He liked her a lot. She’d never been afraid of him-- course, she’d only known him after the chip was implanted. However, even if the chip wasn’t there, he didn’t think he could ever return to his old ways. He had a family, now. Responsibilities. And he  _ liked  _ it.

He acted like he didn’t, but they knew. When they came home to him helping Dawn with her English homework, reading aloud a poem she had to analyse. She began to make him read all the poems she was assigned. 

“You sound different, you know. When you read. Your accent sort of… changes.” Dawn pointed out one day, and he shrugged it off. 

“Was born in the 1850s, love. We were taught to read aloud elegantly. Might not believe it, but I was quite educated in my time.”

After that, the girl liked to push him for more knowledge of his past life, and he never failed to change the subject. He couldn’t let himself talk about it, again. The last time he told the tale of poor William, Buffy had left him cold, choking on sobs in an alleyway. 

Dawn pushed through the door, dropping her bag as she came in. “Spike? You here?”

“In the kitchen, bug!” he called, squinting at the fridge. There was nothing. Nothing that could be made into a proper dinner, at least. He really didn’t want to resort to pasta for the fourth night this week. “You have any ideas for dinner? Something that doesn’t go in the mirco. Or pasta. Those are the only limits for ya, so go wild.”

Dawn looked into the fridge and scowled. “Half the contents of this fridge is blood, Spike. That’s only going to support a fourth of the occupants here. A sixth if Xander and Anya end up coming over, but if they did… oh, do you think they’d bring food? I could drop hints.”

He grinned and shook his head. “Going for the guilt trip? I’m rubbin’ off on you.” 

“Learned from the best. Should I call the magic shop? I know Xander’s still at work and he always yells into the phone over the noise. It’s really annoying. Migraine alert.”

Spike shrugged. “If you can wait ‘til it gets dark, I’ll get some cash. Tell Wil you got it out of your piggy bank or somethin’. Use it to buy yourselves some proper nourishment.”

“If I asked, would you tell me if it was illegal?”

“You want dinner or not, kid?”

“Fair point. I don’t think I’ve eaten a vegetable in weeks.”

“Christ, kid. How are you not dead? Shoulda developed scurvy by now!”

Dawnie laughed, and he grinned. It’d been over a century since he felt this close to a human in a way that didn’t involve them as his meal. Here he was: a predator, a monster,  _ an unholy creature of the night _ , living with two lesbians to raise a teenager. Sounded something of a supernatural version of his soap operas. It made him feel useful. Gave his unlife a semblance of meaning. By night, he fought demons side by side with the Scoobies. By day, he either slept, watched his programmes, or took care of this girl who’s become something between a daughter and a sister to him. Buffy would have laughed at the idea. He liked to think she’d be proud of them, their little makeshift family she’d left them to. She’d find the idea ridiculous, and she’d smile, and he’d feign indifference. He’d take back his bloody  _ soul  _ in trade to see her smile once more. Not the robot. Not the false, cheap imitation of the girl who’d brought them all together. 

When Wil and Tara got home, he’d already been over to his crypt and slipped Dawn a wad of cash. The girls had been skeptical, but they were getting desperate at this point. 

This, of course, resulted in a trip to the grocer. The florescent lights took a toll on his eyes, but he thought he may as well check if there was any fresh pig’s blood at the butcher.

Dawn threw three boxes of granola bars in the cart, probably bruising the fruits and vegetables that floated into it via Willow. Spike snuck in a particularly bloody steak, and Tara stocked up on peanut butter and bread. Two packages of pancake mix and a carton of eggs so Tara could start making Dawn’s breakfast again. They used to receive looks here. The two girls and himself with a child. Perhaps they’d thought they were sisters. However, he still didn’t look the fatherly type. He still kept his hair bleached, still wore his leather duster wherever he went. He liked to think he still had an demonic air about him. Maybe a little less when he was pushing Dawnie around in a cart, but. 

The bill racked up quickly, but he’d given her over two hundred bucks. The cost of living in California was insane, especially due to the fact that none of them had a fucking job. Willow was still receiving a bit of money each week from her mother, but other than that, they relied heavily on Spike’s… unethical income. Joyce’s life insurance dwindled quickly after paying off most of the hospital bills. It was bullshit. The woman had to  _ pay  _ to  _ die _ . The funeral had been expensive, and, hell, with two deaths so close together, their funds had been drained. Buffy’s death (Christ, it hurt like hell to think about it) had been… unconventional. They had to fucking  _ hide  _ it in fear of Dawn being taken away. They’d mustered up enough money to pay for a plot and the headstone, but the funeral was a small, closed one. They held it after sundown for obvious reasons. To not be seen, for Spike and Angel to attend, to hide the tears. Dawnie had lost it, draping her body over the headstone and screaming. 

Willow buried her face in Xander’s chest, trying to muffle her hysterics. They’d buried her with a picture from their early high school days, probably before Spike had come to Sunnydale. Willow’s hair had been long, wearing overalls and her mousy demeanor even noticeable while she’d been laughing. Xander’s arms were around Buffy’s shoulders. She’d had bangs, then. They looked good on her. She’d looked happy. Before she’d had a few apocalypses under her belt.

Angel couldn’t let himself join in. He stood stoically, at least, until he walked away to bloody his hand in punching a nearby tree. It was pathetic, his forehead against the tree, shoulders shaking in silent sobs. Weakness. They were all showing weakness.

Not Spike, though. He’d gotten out all the lashing out, the screaming, the wailing and the bawling. There, he had just felt numb. Her body was under six feet of dirt, but unlike him, she wouldn’t be clawing her way out with a thirst for blood.

It was over an hour before anyone could really calm down enough to begin telling stories about her. Xander, through red eyes and a pale complexion, told about their first encounter. Didn’t bother to count in the part where he’d basically stalked her, but. Spike didn’t sneer and bring it up; he’d been far worse.

Willow, through blubbering, managed to recall how Buffy had dropped Cordelia for her their sophomore year. Cordelia, who attended with Angel, almost laughed. She hadn’t cried, but the resting bitch face didn’t fool anyone. Especially when she choked out something of a sob when Giles reminisced of their school library days. The tale of apocalypse after apocalypse manifested disgust in his chest. The girl finally got the rest she deserved. 

He hadn’t known what to say when it has his turn to speak. His eyes were trained on the fresh mound of dirt. “Glory beat bloody shit outta me. Ribs broken. Cuts and burns and black eyes. It was the closest to Hell I’ve ever been. I thought she was going to kill me. Stupid bitch.” He kicked the dirt. “And when you lot saved me, when I got back to my crypt, she visited me. Made sure I didn’t betray her and the nibblet. I couldn’t… live with myself if somethin’ had happened to her. If she was in pain. And... she kissed me.” He forced a laugh. “She kissed my split lip. I looked more like a monster than ever, and the little bird kissed me.”

He felt Angel’s eyes, but it wasn’t a glare. Something else entirely. Something along the lines of  _ ‘it’s no surprise. how could anyone not fall for her? _ ’.

Angel and Spike only left when the sun was about to peak over the horizon. Xander had gone home with Anya, Cordelia back to her hotel. Tara had left an hour earlier. When Spike left, Willow, Giles and Dawn were still there, and it didn’t seem like the thought of leaving had even occurred to them.

He still visited her, after all this time. When they weren’t kicking demon ass, when Dawnie was sleeping over at a friend’s. When he wasn’t exhausted enough to retire to his crypt. He sat at her stone. It’d grown grass, now. The grave was no longer fresh. He didn’t talk, really. He knew she couldn’t hear him; Spike wasn’t an idiot. The vampire just sat there, smoking up to an entire pack of cigarettes before he made himself go home. 

Tara, he noticed, would visit sometimes during the day. He wasn’t there to see her, of course, but she magicked a few flowers to bloom over her grave. It couldn’t have been the red one. She’d buried herself in her schoolwork, her magical studies, honing her slayer abilities. She wasn’t Buffy, of course, but with himself and the rest of the gang, it wasn’t too bad. They were managing. Demons hadn’t completely taken over Sunnydale in Buffy’s absence, so… there was that. Whoop-Dee-Fucking-Doo.

“Spike?” 

The downside of teaming up with the Scooby Gang was the fact that none of them had any notion of  _ personal fucking space _ . Bleedin’ teenagers (were they still counted as teenagers? Most were twenty or older.) would come and go from his crypt as they pleased. 

“The bleedin’ hell do you want, kid?”

Tara shrugged, “H-hey, Spike. D-d-did I wake you?” She wrung her hands. “I just needed to get away from the h-house for a bit, you know?”

Spike grumbled to himself, “I was awake, but I was enjoying the damned peace and quiet. You have a real reason to be here or not?”

She shifted on her feet. “Willow’s been using a lot, lately. M-m-magic, I mean. Not, um, drugs. Normal drugs, I mean. She’s not, like, a co-cocaine addict.” Tara nearly forced a smile. “But it’s getting dangerous, I think. Her power k-kinda scares me. No one seems to agree with m-me about it. I th-think she’s going into dark magicks, and I’m w-worried. Do you have an… an opinion on it?”

“Well, pet, all magic has a price. It has consequences. Especially that dark shit. Even I wouldn’t dabble in that, and I’m bloody evil.” He ignored the way she raised an eyebrow at the ‘evil’ part. No matter how much he helped the gang, he still didn’t have a soul. He couldn’t let himself forget. Spike coughed. “Ain’t it ironic? Little Red used to be such a mousy little thing. I miss those days. Course, back then, I was trying to kill her.”

Tara nodded. “S-so you agree? She should… sh-should cut back?”

He sighed, and got up with a stretch, heading to the fridge for a bag of blood.

“Not my call, love. You tried talkin’ to her? She’ll listen to you, right? You’re her girl. Seen the way she looks at, darlin’. She’ll cut back if you ask nicely. Maybe throw in a few sexual favors.”

Tara blushed. A laugh bubbled up. “You’re lewd. You’re r-right, but you’re lewd.”

Spike grinned lazily. “I know how people work, love. And I know you Scoobies well enough. Enough to know Red’s crazy for you. Wasn’t like that with the werewolf.”

She nodded, moving to leave. “Thanks, Spike.”

He waved her off. “Go see your girl. Tell her how you feel and cherish her and all that shit. Or eventually it’ll be too late.”

She lingered in the doorway, silence heavy between them. “I miss her, too.”

Tara left, and Spike mixed some whiskey into his mug.

That was pretty much his life, these days. These people she’d left behind, banding together, because,  _ Christ _ , what were they supposed to do without her? She hadn’t left any of them bloody instructions, and obviously that Faith girl wouldn’t be stepping in to save the day. Wasn’t there supposed to be another slayer out there? He hoped not. Buffy wasn’t a slayer. She was  _ the  _ Slayer. These girls, the ones he’d killed in the past… none of them compared to her. In technique, in strength, in wit, in  _ anything _ . For anyone to try to take her title would be a desecration of her memory, wouldn’t it? He wouldn’t trust himself to meet a new slayer. 

The kill wouldn’t be for bloodlust.

Giles assured them he had no idea of who the next girl might be, if she’d even been called upon yet. No one wanted to think of it. They continued with their routine. Willow directing the gang from the top of the mausoleum, Spike beatin’ the vamps to a bloody pulp before Anya or Xander staked the demons from behind. On particularly slow nights, he’d simply flick his lighter and watch the poor suckers burn. Lucky blokes, they were. Faced with the cool (or in this case: hot) grasp of death without a chance to fight back. 

Maybe it would have been better, that way. To just let it happen. Like a goddamn band-aid. He sure as hell’d thought about it after the battle. The second his eyes fell to her lifeless body, battered and bruised and he  _ felt  _ the absence of her heartbeat. He wished Glory would have just killed him while she had the chance. At least he would’ve died knowing it’d been for her. Fuck,  _ everything  _ he’d done for months had been for her. Stupid bitch took over his life without either of them having realized it. 

Day one hundred and forty two. Was this all there was? Endless days of making-do? Demons were growing more powerful. The robot wasn’t as convincing as it should be, even to the vampires. Money was running out. Dawn wasn’t doing too well in school, or so he overhead Willow arguing with Tara about. Who could blame the bug, though? Her mother was dead. Her sister essentially killed herself. Her father was fuck knows where with no return address or phone number. All she had left was this rag tag group of young adults who had no fucking clue how to raise a child. 

So, yeah. A C- on a test was acceptable for her special fucking circumstances.

“Why don’t you ever play Go Fish with me?”

“Because that’s a bullshit excuse for a card game, kid. Now, tell Tara to get her arse in here before I peek at her hand.”

“I, for one, would like to play the fish game.” Anya interjected, “Do we get to eat the fish once the game is through? Because I think we are all very hungry.”

Tara plopped beside them at the table. “Xander’s out p-picking up Chinese, An. He’ll b-be back soon and we won’t have to eat the fictitious fish.”

“Well, good. You know I despise shrimp, and seafood is all the same; shady and salty.”

“Just like Spike.” Dawn said smugly, and Spike shook his head.

“The mouth on this one, I swear. You’re lucky you’re cute.” Spike grumbled, “Don’t know who influenced that attitude more. Me or--”

“Buffy.”

Dawn put her cards down and wordlessly went upstairs. The atmosphere shifted, and Spike bit the inside of his cheek. Tensions had been abnormally high for two weeks. He put his cards down with a heavy sigh. “Gonna sit this one out, ladies. Think I might try my luck at talking to the little bug.”

“I think I should talk to her.” Willow offered, but Xander arrived with the food and she’d forgotten her proposition with an _ ‘Oh, sesame chicken!’ _ Spike took Dawn’s lo mein and made his way to her room. 

“Nibblet? Can we talk?” His knuckles rapped on the door, “I know you’re in there, Dawn. I brought you your food-- well, fuck, I forgot the chopsticks, but I’m sure you don’t know how to use them anyway.”

The door unlocked. The girl’s eyes were red, tracks of mascara-infused tears on her cheeks. Looked pitiful, the thing. Her voice quivered. “Dad taught Buffy and I when we were little.” She snatched the container from him and went to her bed. The door stayed open, though, so he took it as an invitation. 

“Didn’t mean to remind you of…” He looked at her carpet, then took a seat in her desk chair. “It’s alright that you’re still upset. Still don’t feel real to me. Keep thinkin’--” Spike forced a laugh, “Thinkin’ I’ll wake up. That this is all just a stupid nightmare.”

Dawn picked at the lo mein with her fingers. Her eyes stay locked there. “I just want her to come home.”

Oh. How the hell was he supposed to respond to that?  _ ‘Sorry, bug. Your sister’s either in Heaven or one of thousands of Hell dimensions her supernatural death closed to save us all.’ _ Spike wasn’t that much of a dick. Especially since the thought choked him. “I think she is home, bug.” He whispered, “Where she is. I think she’s home. With your mum.” Did he really believe this hogwash? He desperately wished he could.

“I dream about her. Every  _ night _ , Spike. You don’t understand!” Dawn’s knuckles turn white, jaw clenched. 

“You think I don’t?” He looked up at her, though her gaze wouldn’t budge. “You know what I see when I close my eyes, kid? I see her. I always see her. On that tower. When we  _ found  _ her. All the-- the bruises and the wounds and the  _ blood _ .” He had the urge to punch the wall, but he refrained. Xander would castrate him if he gave him yet another reason to have to fix the house. “Dawn, you’re all that’s left of her. I loved her, and... I love you. It hurts like hell, but one day we’re both gonna have to move on. You have Wil and Tara, yeah? You all have each other. Buffy would be happy about it, right?”

Dawn shrugged. “What about you?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Course, you have me, too.”

“No. Not what I meant.” She finally looked up, “Who do you have?”

Spike grinned with tears threatening to prick his eyes. “Jack Daniels, love.”

She was crying, now. He didn’t know what to do. “Shut up. Just-- just shut up! You have us! You have  _ me! _ Why can’t you see that? Spike, we’re all dealing with Buffy being gone. Stop telling yourself you’re alone in that! We  _ all  _ loved her.”

He was desperate for a drink, now. “You and I most of all, kid.”

And she was crying, and suddenly hugging him, and bloody hell, he was at a loss. His hand patted the back of her head, but after a few moments of stunned silence, he buried his face in her shoulder. He hadn’t let himself cry, yet. Not in front of anyone, at least. 

“I m-miss her so  _ much _ .” Dawn murmured into his shirt. Eugh, his sleeve was all wet, now. He hoped it was just the tears. These thoughts of semi-disgust distracted him from the fact that he was crying on a teenager’s shoulder. Christ, he was going soft. “Why can’t we just… bring her back? Willow and Tara are witches! Why couldn’t they have done a spell or… something?”

“Not the way it works, love. Magicks can’t be abused like that. Even then, I don’t think there’s any spell that  _ could  _ bring her back to us. Wil would’ve tried it by now.” His voice was hoarse, soft. “How about I go get you a fork? Bet your food’s gettin’ cold.”

At her nod, he began to leave. “Wait-- Spike.” She called after him, and he peeked his head into the doorway with an arched, scarred eyebrow. “Thanks for...um. Stuff. Everything. You know what I mean.”

He shrugged it off. “Everybody needs a good cry, now and then, bug. Don’t worry.”

“No. Not just that. Just. Being here. I was pretty young when you first came to Sunnydale and tried to kill everyone, but. It’s nice to know that people can change.” Her knees were drawn into her chest. “I think she would have fallen in love with you, you know. Given more time. I would’ve liked that.”

Of course the bug would know the exact words to say to make him break down.

And now, they were at a hundred and forty seven days, closing in on five months since the final battle with Glory. The Scoobies were off doing fuck knows what, and he was on babysitting duty. He didn’t mind. Passions was back from hiatus and they’d ordered pizza. God, someone in this house really had to learn to cook something other than fuckin’ pasta. Without all the demon slaying, he was sure everyone would have gained ten pounds by now. Take out was getting old.

The night before had been fun, though. They were all starting to understand this whole ‘telepathy’ thing. Still felt weird havin’ Red in his head, though. Could she always read his thoughts? A few months prior, that would have been embarrassing. All he’d thought about was Buffy.

His thoughts weren’t licentious, anymore. It seemed that when he wasn’t preoccupied with Dawn or the Scoobies, his mind was a bloody  _ broken record _ . That night. Buffy jumping to her death. How he’d tried to pick her up but she was  _ cold _ , she was cold and unblinking and limp. Not even his trusty pal Jack Daniels drown out the images.

He welcomed any distractions, at this point. Currently, the distraction was Dawnie, gossiping about her parent-teacher day with the Buffybot. 

“So my homeroom teacher, Ms. Lefcort, was like,  _ ‘Your sister's an example to us all.’ _ Hmm! She wanted to make it National Buffy Day.” She plopped beside him on the couch, putting her drink on the table. He scoffed. They were all lucky it went as well as it did. He’d suggested numerous times that Tara go with them, just in case, but she had classes and didn’t want to raise suspicions. It’s a bloody fuckin’ robot that still malfunctioned: the suspicions were already raised.

“Makes sense.”

“It does?”

“Yeah, she responded to BuffyBot because a robot is predictable. Boring. Perfect teacher's pet. That's all schools are, you know. Just factories, spewing out mindless little automatons.” When she raised an eyebrow, he realized his mistake. He tried to cover it up quickly, “Who go on to be... very...  _ valuable  _ and productive members of society, and you should go.” There was a beat. After the other day, he didn’t know if he should risk bringing her back into this. “Because Buffy would want you to.”

The silence was palpable. Well, he’d fucked up. Now they both felt shitty. The silence dragged on. He stared at the table. “Check,” Dawn eventually responded, “One mindless automaton coming up.”

He tried to fill the silence before it consumed them again. His mouth went dry. “So, uh, what do you fancy, bit? Uh… game of rummy?” He got up off the couch, busying himself in searching the drawer for the cards.   
“Well, uh. Willow and Tara said they’d be back early. You really don’t have to hang, I mean, if you’re bored.” 

“I’m not, and yeah, I do.” Once he found them, he pulled up a chair and sat opposite her.

“But I’m fine alone. It’s not like anyone’s coming after me. I’m not the key. Or, if I am,” She didn’t acknowledge the look Spike was giving her, and kept talking, “I don’t open anything, anymore. It’s over. Remember?”

If the bug thought she was making him feel better, it wasn’t working. He bit the inside of his cheek, voice low. “I’m not leaving you here by yourself, so forget it.”

“Well, I’m just saying--”

He slammed the cards down on the table, jaw clenched. Dawn jumped slightly, and fuck, how many times could he fuck the same day over? He stared back at the table, muscles tensed and rigid. “No. I’m not leaving you,” His throat constricted his words momentarily, “...to get hurt. Not again.”

He looked at her, and he felt his walls cracking, leaving himself vulnerable. She’s the only one he could do that with and feel, in the broadest of terms,  _ safe _ . She looked back at him. Her and Buffy had the same eyes. They sat like that in silence for a long while.

When the BuffyBot returned from slaying, she was scratched up pretty bad. Dawn didn’t know how to react, poor thing. She probably couldn’t deal with seeing her sister (or, the cheap imitation of her) all banged up again. Bit went upstairs, and he mumbled something about bringing up her cocoa later. So there he was, alone with this Buffy 2.0. He didn’t exactly know what to do; he didn’t fancy being left alone with this… thing. She stared at him expectantly, and even though he tried to ignore her, he felt her robotic eyes on him. 

“What do you want?” Spike pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting off a headache. 

“I am injured. Willow is here, yes? I am programmed to go to Willow when I need assistance.”

Spike sighed, “She ain’t here, love.”

She frowned. “I have to locate Willow. She will fix me.” The BuffyBot went to leave, but he took her arm.

“No can do. She’s doin’ important stuff. Will be back soon. Then we’ll get you all patched up. You’ll be slayin’ again in no time.”

“But I am programmed to go to--”

“No.”

She frowned. God, he hated that. It was times like these he couldn’t even trick himself into believing it was her. She looked too innocent. Too vulnerable.

When Willow arrived, he could have thanked God, you know, if he weren’t an abomination to the Christian world and defied the work of His creation. BuffyBot immediately went to greet her, knocking over a vase in the process before bumping into the wall.

“What happened?” She seemed panicked, “Where’s Dawn?” Willow took the robot’s arm, examining the damage.

“Upstairs, in bed.” He waved it off, “But the ’Bot here seems to have got into a scrape while she was on patrol.”

“I think my feet are broken!” She chirped, and Willow led her over to the couch.

“Eh, looks more like a short in the navigational system.” She said, “Can you get me a flashlight? It’s in the, uh, kitchen.”

“She wanted to go out and look for you, again, but I figured there are enough things in Sunnydale that go bump in the night. ” He nodded, heading over to the kitchen. Once he found it, he lingered. Hell, that robot made him uncomfortable. To look at her, knowing it wasn’t really her? He couldn’t tell if it’d be easier to just cut her cold turkey. Maybe then the lot of them could have some closure. Was damn hard to deal with her death when half the time she was fighting alongside them. The constant reminder made her death that much harder. They unfortunately needed the BuffyBot, though. To fool the demons, and more importantly, to fool anyone who might try to take Dawnie away. They needed her, or else chaos would ensue over the entirety of the Hellmouth. 

And onto more pressing matters: Red still needed that flashlight.

He walked back in, looking up at the sound of his name. BuffyBot was smiling at him, that big plastic smile that, back before any of this damn mess, used to make his stomach twist in something akin to happiness. He tried not to look at her.

“Sorry I questioned you, Spike.” At that, he looked up, unsure of how he was supposed to respond. “You know I admire your brain almost as much as your washboard abs.”

He swallowed a lump in his throat. Yeah, he’d made his decision. He would’ve been better off without this bloody fuckin’ robot. The only way it’d be useful for him would be to just fucking  _ stake  _ him, already. He couldn’t trust his voice to hold steady, and spoke softly.  “I told you to make her stop doing that.”

“I did! I mean, I thought I got all that stuff out of the program.” Willow looked to her computer.

“Well, you’ve got her opened up. Fix it.”

Her big, artificial green eyes followed him as he left. God, he needed a drink. He tried not to remember he’d told Dawnie he’d bring one to her.

Life’s full of disappointments, kid.

He still came, the next night. The ‘Bot was out, so it would just be him and the bug. He could deal with that. Always meant he’d get Dawnie’s gossip. Who fuckin’ cares if he actually knew who this Kirstie was? Little bug had some  _ nasty  _ shit on that bint. Apparently the little skank was cheating on her boy toy with a junior on the swim team. Teenagers were so dramatic, and Spike  _ lived  _ for it.

But the ‘bit was out cold, now. Curled up on the couch while they’d been watching some made-for-tv bullshit that might have had his favorite  _ Passions  _ actress in a supporting role. He stared at the telly, weighing his options. He could turn it up and be subjected to the wrath of a grumpy Dawn Summers, or he could be alone with the desiderium in the pit of his stomach, the crippling thoughts in the silence. He was pretty much solid in his decision to crank up the telly when he heard it. Crashing, banging, and fuckin’ motorcycles in  _ this  _ part of town? They were in trouble. Demons were attacking, the Slayer was dead, the Scoobies were out, and the only person semi-capable to fight them was himself.

Bugger.

And, of course, the icing on the fucking cake: Dawnie’d woken up.

“What’s going on?” She asked quietly, peering out.

“Stay away from the window.” He whispered, taking her lightly by the shoulders to move her away. No fucking way they’d come all this way to have Dawn killed by some lug of a demon. 

“What is it-- what’s happening?” She questioned, but he didn’t have time for this.

“Just do as I say.” He stated distractedly, checking the locks on the doors. He took her by the shoulders again, “I’m going to check the rest of the house.”

It seemed secure, or, well-- secure as it could be. Locks weren’t really going to stand up to demon strength and sledgehammers. So that left him to look through Buffy’s-- or, the Scoobies, now-- trunk of weapons. “Nothin’! Couple’a stakes. Right big help. Holy water, one cross--” Spike let out a howl of pain. The hell was he thinking, touching that thing? This fear of the bug gettin’ hurt was clouding his logic. Just like her sister, that one. He shook his head at himself. “Oh, brilliant.”

He glanced up long enough to see Dawnie back at the window. 

“Here!” Spike walked over, “Do you want me to bloody thump you? Stay away from the window.”

“Who are they?”

“Hellions.” He answered, watching them through the glass, “Road pirates. They raid towns. Use ‘em up, burn ‘em down. Usually backwaters. Any place they think…”

Realization hit him like a swift kick to the gut. They knew. “Any place they think is vulnerable.”

“They know.” Dawn said hesitantly as he looked back at her. “The Slayer’s gone.”

He didn’t let the words sink under his skin. Had to focus on the now. It was only a matter of time before they made it to the Rosenberg-Maclay-Summers household. “We can’t stay here.” Spike shut the curtain quickly, taking Dawn’s wrist and leading them towards the back of the house.

“Well, I-I’m not going out there!” She protested, but his mind was made up.

“Got no choice, ‘bit; can’t protect you here.” His mind was in full survival mode, and it felt strangely akin to his days protecting Dru. Dawnie was a lot like her, she was. Insufferable at times, but he’d still take down a bleedin’ army for her. Long as she stayed safe, there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do.

“We c-can lock the doors, turn off the lights.” Dawn tried to convince him, but he scoffed.

“And what, hide under the bed linens? Not really my style.” 

He hadn’t even finished speaking when she pleaded back, “But we have to wait for the others, and Buffy.” The fuck was the bug talking about? “...Bot. You know, the- the BuffyBot.”

Oh, fuck. They were treading on ‘Buffy’s-Really-Dead Conversation’ territory. Not now. They couldn’t do this now. He ignored whatever else she’d been goin’ on about and shook her shoulders slightly. “Look.” Spike paused to gather his thoughts, “Dawn. I get that you’re scared. But I’m your sitter, so  _ mind  _ me.” He took her hands into his, voice softening, “I’m not going to let any of those buggers lay so much as a warty digit on you. Right?”

She hesitated a moment, then answered softly, “Right.”

“Right, then. We can’t wait to see if the others will pop in. We’re on our own.” He began walking briskly towards the back of the house once again, and this time, she willingly followed him. “No one’s coming to our rescue.”

They made it into the backyard and the side of the house with ease, but with the Hellions now so close, they stayed in the bushes. The bug wanted to keep going, but he pushed her behind him. “Get back!” 

“Hey.” She said, though it was a bit hard for him to concentrate on over the screaming woman in the house across from them, “I-it looks like they’re just... wrecking stuff. With no thought other than destruct-o-rama.” 

Spike wasn’t paying much attention; the sound of breaking glass caught his ear. They’d smashed it through with a chair. Hell, he missed his days of looting and mindless destruction. Good times, those were. He let out a bit of a laugh.

“What?” And, shite. He was caught.

“Uh-- oh, nothing. Just, uh. Looked like fun.” He must sound like an idiot. “I’m just sayin’.” He looked around, “It’s just-- with this kind of frolicking going on all around town, we’re not going to get very far without--...”

So, maybe he went on to steal himself a motorcycle. ‘Least he got the bug a helmet, right? “Let’s fly, pigeon!”

The ride around town was short. They’d come across a large fire surrounded by motorcycles and-- what the  _ bloody  _ fuck was that?

The BuffyBot. Dawn’d gone to it first.  _ It’s just a machine _ , the logical part of his brain screamed to him. For one brief moment, the rest of him listened. “Just a machine, Dawn.”

He’d walked away to let her have her moment. Spike had never, not for a second since her death, let himself believe this robot was the real deal. That didn’t mean Dawnie stuck to the same rules. As much as he cared for Buffy, as much as it tore him apart to think about her loss-- Dawnie was her sister. A sister with fourteen years worth of memories. He couldn’t blame her for grieving again.

What he  _ could  _ blame her for, however, was  _ bloody running off _ .

Panic lurched in his gut; he was sure he was about to lose his fucking mind, and it was all this stupid teenager’s fault. Bug was gonna get hurt, or kidnapped, or  _ killed _ , and it’d be his fucking fault. Great. Another Summers death on his conscience.

No. He wouldn’t let that happen.

“Dawn!” He screamed, getting back on his bike to search the surrounding alleyways. Kid was mourning, sure, but that didn’t give her an excuse to give him a goddamn panic attack. Maybe he could try to find the Scoobies. Where the fuck was the gang, what with everything going on? Wil and Tara may be able to fend these guys off with their magicks, but Xander? Anya? Even if Dawn found them, she wouldn’t be safe. That was his responsibility.

It took him two hours, maybe more. Fights with the Hellions and calling her name all over creation. It looked like a bloody war zone out there, broken fire hydrants and flaming trash bins and power lines dangling, sparking. Dead bodies littering the streets every few blocks. At some point, he’d given into the shred of hope that she’d returned home. Oh, was he going to kick her ass.

Even on the way home, he scoured the streets. “Gotta be somewhere…” Spike murmured to himself, “Gotta be somewhere…”

When he returned to the Rosenberg-Maclay-Summers household, he called for her breathlessly. “Dawn! Dawn! You here?” Dawnie appeared at the top of the stairs and he thanked God, despite the irony. “You scared me half to death… or, more to death.” He attempted to shake away the panic that’d been coursing through his veins, “I could kill you!”

“Spike.” She looked as though she were trying to clue him in on something, but he had no idea what, and could really care less at the moment. 

“I mean it.” He continued, though he was already softening. “Could rip your head off one-handed and drink from your brain stem.”

“Look.” Her eyes were wide, pleading. The BuffyBot trailed behind her, and he brushed it off. 

“Yeah, I’ve seen the bloody ‘Bot before. Didn’t think she’d patch up so--”

She was looking at him. Body bruised and face solemn and childishly shy. Those eyes were full of pain, of fear and confusion. This couldn’t be real.  _ She  _ was too real.

It was her.

Dawn was talking, now, but he couldn’t concentrate on anything but her. “She’s kind of-- She’s been through a lot, with the… death. But I think she’s okay.” He didn’t respond. They were just staring at each other. Christ, he’d missed those eyes. “Spike? You okay?”

“I’m…” He could hardly form words. His throat was thick and wet. “What did you do?”

“Me? Nothing!”

He looked her up and down; this couldn’t be happening. Was it really her? Oh, god. “Her hands.”

“I was gonna fix ‘em. I don’t know how they got like that.”

“I do. Clawed her way outta her coffin, that’s how. Isn’t that right?” He couldn’t bring himself to speak above a whisper, in fear of scaring her, in fear od waking himself from what surely must be a dream. 

“Yeah.” She spoke, averting his gaze as the words faintly ghosted her lips, “That’s... what I had to do.”

“Done it myself.” After a few more moments of unabashed staring, he shook himself. “Um… we’ll take care of you.” His arm reached out to guide her towards the couch, and he only touched her shoulder for a moment before recoiling, realizing that probably wasn’t the brightest idea. She probably didn’t want to be touched, and, Christ, he didn’t want to scare her away.

“Get some stuff,” He looked to Dawnie, “Mercurochrome, bandages.”

“Okay.” She left, and so it was just him and Buffy, sitting across from each other, knees touching. This had to be a sick joke by his subconscious. But then he took her hands into his-- they were freezing, but the thrum of blood beneath her skin set his heart ablaze. He had to swallow before he could look at her. 

Their eyes met.

“How long was I gone?” A sort of fear had crept into her voice, as if she didn’t really want to know. 

“...A hundred and forty seven days, yesterday. Uh, hundred and forty eight, today.” A smile curved his lips. “Except today doesn’t count, does it?” He looked back at her hands, so tiny and cold. But they would warm up. Her bruises would fade. She would smile again. Laugh again. And, probably, kick his ass again. He couldn’t wait.

“How long was it, for you? Where you were?” Spike leaned in slightly, hanging on to every movement, every sound she made. 

“Longer.”

The Scoobies burst in and crowded her, after that. As badly as he wanted to stay by her side, he couldn’t look at these people. They brought her back, and they-- they didn’t even  _ tell  _ him. After all this time, all they’d been through together.

He needed a smoke. 


End file.
